An Evening of T & A
by chazper
Summary: Written for the OC Advent Challenge. An evening out helps Ryan begin to emerge from his grief. Characters on loan from Josh & company. Part 3. Conclusion.
1. Chapter 1

An Evening of T and A 

"Taylor?!"

Without any other greeting, Seth burst into the poolhouse, arms flailing like semaphores. A flood of garish sunlight surged in after him.

Ryan shaded his eyes as he closed the door. "Good morning to you too," he said dryly. "Thanks for knocking."

"Right. Morning, knock, privacy . . . got it." Waving away the obvious reprimand, Seth planted himself on the ottoman. Then, too excited to sit, he bobbed back up again. "Ryan, Summer just told me that Taylor is back in town and that you and her?" His brow furrowed. "Or is it she? Never mind, whatever. Summer said that the two of you will be--how did Taylor put it?--accompanying each other to the charity auction tonight. Dude, is that true?" Seth paused just long enough to catch his breath. "You going is newsworthy enough, but . . . with Taylor?"

Sighing, Ryan buttoned a somber blue shirt over his wifebeater.

"Seriously, buddy. Taylor? Townsend?"

Ryan tilted his head, frowned, and gave a wary shrug.

"So--wait, really?" Seth's eyes widened and he hopped on the bed. "Taylor Townsend and Ryan Atwood," he caroled, bouncing gleefully. "Together, ladies and gentlemen. Taylor Townsend and Ryan Atwood."

"Stop. That," Ryan growled.

"But dude! Taylor Townsend and Ryan Atwood."

"Seth!"

Chastened, Seth sat down, but he continued to smile to himself. "And at a Newpsie event," he mused aloud. "Who would have thought we'd ever see T and A?"

Ryan's head jerked up and he dropped the watch he was fastening. "T and . . .? Seth!"

"What?" A flush of realization slowly warmed Seth's face. "Oh. Whoa. Sorry, man. That was just Cohen initial-speak for Townsend and Atwood. I didn't mean T as in tits and A as in ass. Although Taylor's breasts are definitely perky and your ass--"

"Do _not_ finish that sentence," Ryan warned. "Not unless you want yours kicked."

Seth gulped, stumbling off the bed and backing toward the door. "Um, no, not so much," he conceded. Despite himself, he couldn't keep a grin from resurfacing. Ryan sounded so gruff, so dead-arm threatening--so normal. It had been ages since Seth had heard that ironic tone, drained of its reservoir of grief and guilt. Silently, he thanked Jesus and Moses and, no less reverently, Taylor Townsend. "But Ryan," he continued, once he had moved a safe distance away. "You have to admit, the idea of you and Taylor . . ."

"There is no me and Taylor," Ryan insisted. Brushing past Seth, he headed outside and across the patio. Seth scurried ahead of him, turning to jog backwards as he spoke.

"Of course there's no you and Taylor _that way_, Ryan. But she told Summer and Summer told me that you two are going to the charity auction--"

"What are you, twelve?"

"Not twelve, dude. Just, you know, confused and intrigued and—ow!" Seth rebounded dramatically as he bumped into the French doors. "Also injured at the moment."

Swallowing a furtive grin, Ryan sidled around and headed for the cereal cabinet. Seth followed, rubbing the back of his head.

"Come on, Ryan," he pleaded. "I'm just looking for some background info here. A little exposition, the whys and hows and wherefores--"

Ryan paused, considering, as he poured Cap'n Crunch into a bowl. "Why and wherefore mean the same thing, Seth."

"Not the point, buddy! And don't try to change the subject. I will not be distracted here. First, how about official confirmation for the press release? Are you or are you not escorting Taylor to the auction?"

Ryan stirred his dry cereal, apparently oblivious to the question.

Squirming, Seth watched in frustration as the spoon circled the bowl. "Come on, man," he prompted. "All I want is a simple yes or no. And I'll find out tonight anyway, so you might as well just confess now. Are you and Taylor going to the auction together?"

Defeated, Ryan bobbed his head once.

That gesture, slight as it was, seemed to send seismic waves rippling across the kitchen floor. Seth toppled onto a stool. Momentarily speechless, he simply stared, his eyes wide and glazed. He didn't rouse until Ryan sat down beside him and began to eat with slow, precise bites. Then Seth cleared his throat. He opened his mouth twice in fish-like o's before any sound emerged.

"Wow," he breathed. "You really are. That's . . . that's amazing, really." He almost added a remark about Superman emerging from the Fortress of Solitude, but at the last moment, he reconsidered. Instead, he settled for observing cautiously, "I thought you weren't going. What made you change your mind?"

Ryan hunched one shoulder. "Your mom. She asked me to."

"Asked you to what, sweetie?" Kirsten padded, yawning, into the kitchen and directly over to the coffee maker.

"To go to the art auction tonight," Seth announced before Ryan could shape a reply. "It seems Mr. Atwood has decided to attend after all."

Kirsten dropped her spoon. She swiveled around, her eyes bright with delighted surprise. "Is that true? You're coming?" Impulsively, she put down her mug, leaned over and kissed Ryan's forehead. "I'm so glad," she whispered. "Thank you. That means a lot to me."

Ryan flushed. "It's for a good cause," he explained awkwardly.

"What's a good cause?" Sandy asked as he entered from outdoors, his skin ruddy from surfing. Crossing the room in two strides, he nuzzled Kirsten's neck and pilfered her untouched cup of coffee at the same time.

"The women's shelter Mom wants Newport to build," Seth reported. "And--wait for it, Dad. There's breaking news here at Casa Cohen." He paused to beat a drum roll on the countertop. "Ryan is coming to the art auction tonight."

Sandy's eyebrows climbed until they vanished into a thatch of damp hair. "Really?" With a nod of approval, he raised his drink in an impromptu toast.

"Well, cheers! I'm glad to hear that, kid."

"It's not a big deal," Ryan demurred. His downcast gaze remained fixed on his cereal.

Over his head, Sandy glanced at Kirsten and Seth, silently warning them not to argue, not to mention the invitations Ryan had declined, all the time he had spent sequestered alone in the poolhouse since Marissa's death.

"Of course it's not," he agreed mildly. "I'm just glad we'll have your company. Hey, the more friendly faces at one of these events, the better." Leaning close, he lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. "Although my lovely wife swears this won't be the usual, stuffy Newpsie affair. She tells me they're even serving real food—none of those ridiculous air-and-crunch appetizers."

"Sandy! Some people love those crab meat and brie hors d'oeuvres," Kirsten reclaimed her coffee, smiling over the brim at Seth and Ryan. "But it is true that we want this evening to be more—well, relaxed—than most of our parties. You boys don't even have to wear ties." A flicker of anxiety crossed her face. "And Ryan," she added, "please don't feel obligated to stay until the end. It's enough that you're coming. I won't be offended if you decide to leave early."

Seth laced his fingers behind his neck. Craning his head, he directed an angelic grin at the ceiling. "Maybe you won't mind, Mom," he observed artlessly, "but Ryan's date might."

There was a moment of dumbfounded silence. Three pairs of eyes swiveled to Ryan. He froze, lips parted for a bite of cereal, looking intently at his suspended spoon. A drop of milk quivered on the rim.

"Ryan's . . . date?" Sandy repeated. His eyebrows jumped up down, furrowing in confusion.

Kirsten edged closer to Ryan. "Sweetie," she prompted carefully. "You're taking someone to the auction?"

A blush singed Ryan's cheeks. His lashes fell, shadowing his eyes, and he rubbed an invisible smudge on the countertop. "Taylor," he replied. When the others waited, their silence humming with questions, he took a deep breath. "I, um, I met her at the restaurant when I went to pick up dinner last night," he explained reluctantly. "She just got back to town, and we started talking . . ."

"Translation: Taylor started talking," Seth conjectured. Kirsten shushed him with a glare, and he clamped his lips shut. Even so, he couldn't hide his persistent grin.

Ignoring the interruption, Ryan continued. "Taylor mentioned the auction. Her mother wants her to be there, but she didn't have a, um . . . didn't have anyone to go with. So she . . . suggested . . . that we go together. That's all." Embarrassed, he glanced at the Cohens and then back down again.

"Oh," Kirsten breathed. Even though Ryan wasn't looking, she smiled tenderly. "And one of your mothers wants you there too. So it worked out perfectly for everyone."

Ryan busied himself pouring a glass of orange juice. "I guess," he murmured.

"Ah. So, in point of fact, Taylor actually invited you." Seth tented his fingers and nodded sagely. "That explains a lot." Ryan darted an **icy** glare sideways, but Seth simply gave a blithe shrug in response. "Hey, I just mean . . . Taylor's persuasive, you're a gentleman . . . I can see how it all played out."

"There's no _play_ involved, Seth," Ryan hissed. "Let it go."

"Go, Ryan?" Seth's eyes glinted wickedly. "Go where exactly?"

"Well, I think it's very sweet of you to keep Taylor company," Kirsten declared, deflecting Ryan's retort. Patting his shoulder, she inserted herself hastily between the boys. "And I'm thrilled that I'll have the support of all my men tonight. This fundraiser means a great deal to me."

Mollified, Ryan managed to eke out a thin smile. Still, as he stood up to clear his breakfast dishes he jiggled the glass, sloshing several sticky drops of juice onto Seth's head.

"Oops. Sorry, man" he claimed. He tossed a towel from the sink, his expression the smug antithesis of apology.

Seth spluttered, swabbing at his hair. "Dude!" he protested. "You just destroyed twenty minutes of careful grooming! Now I have to rework my fro and I won't have time to finish the Arts & Leisure section."

He maintained a show of righteous indignation until the French doors closed behind Ryan. Then Seth swiveled to face his parents. A Cheshire grin carved dimples deep into his cheeks.

"Okay, I don't want to jinx it or anything," he whispered. "But did anyone else detect a glimmer of the old Ryan Atwood here this morning? I mean, the guy didn't behave like some polite stranger. He actually seemed, well, like himself, all mock-threatening and acting like I was getting on his nerves."

"I don't think that part was an act, son," Sandy commented wryly. "But you're right, Ryan did seem to be less distant and, I don't know. . ."

"Melancholy?" Kirsten suggested, slipping her arms around her husband's waist.

Sandy nodded. "Melancholy," he agreed. He rubbed his cheek against Kirsten's hair as they both gazed toward the poolhouse, where Ryan was starting to pull the blinds up.

"I thought so." Seth sighed happily. "And hey, it's about time. I mean I don't expect him to be over what happened, but Ryan's been stuck at ebony on the RA color-coded depression chart forever. This morning, though? I'd definitely put him at purple, veering toward cobalt blue. But who would have thought Taylor would be the one to get through to him?"

"That's what you're wearing, Atwood?"

Ryan spun around, dropping the wallet he'd started to slip into his back pocket. Summer stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, her mouth pursed in a critical frown. In back of her, Seth bounced on his toes, miming contrition.

Ryan glared at both of them as he retrieved his wallet. "Kirsten said we didn't have to wear suits tonight," he grumbled. "So . . ." He shrugged, and plucked at the sleeves of his charcoal gray sweater.

"Well . . ." Summer cocked her head, considering. "It _is_ an art auction and gallery-type people do tend to be fashion-defiant and monochrome. Maybe you're all right." She spun her finger in the air. "Turn."

"What?"

Sliding out from behind her, Seth demonstrated by pivoting in a circle, his cheek muscles pinched in model-hauteur. For added effect, he flipped back his blazer to display its deep red lining.

Ryan squinted in disbelief. "You're kidding, right?"

"Wrong," Summer insisted. "Turn."

"No."

"Aw, come on, buddy," Seth coaxed. "Give us a twirl."

"I will give you a . . . never mind. It's getting late. If we're going to do this thing, let's just go, all right?"

Grabbing his jacket, Ryan stalked out the door. Behind his back, Seth nudged Summer triumphantly. "See?" he demanded sotto voce. "I told you. Signs of life, Atwood-style."

Summer nodded, slipping her hand into his as they strolled across the patio. Her tremulous smile wavered between sorrow and relief. "Thank God," she whispered. "Marissa would never forgive us if we let him grieve forever. She'd want Ryan to be happy again."

Leaning down, Seth kissed the top of her head. "She'd want that for you too."

"I know," Summer sighed. "And I'm trying. At least I have you. That makes it easier." She paused, nestling against Seth for a moment. Then, taking a deep breath, she tossed back her hair and straightened her shoulders brusquely. "Okay, Cohen, you heard Ryan. Let's get going, before he changes his mind."

"So . . . um, dude," Seth said warily. Peering at Ryan through the rearview mirror, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "You rushed us out of the poolhouse, muttered about being late the whole way here, and now you're just . . . sitting? You are going to get out of the car, right?"

Summer glanced backwards. "Of course, he's getting out of the car," she declared, flashing Ryan an encouraging smile. "Aren't you, Atwood?"

There was no answer from the backseat.

"You know, if you want, you and Taylor could just ride with us," Seth suggested. "I don't mind playing chauffeur tonight. Besides, four people, one car—it would be much more fuel-efficient and environment-friendly. Plus, you wouldn't have to worry about any awkward pauses in the conversation."

The silence continued.

"Like, for example, this one. Ryan? Hello? How about it? We can all go together, me and Summer, you and Taylor, just like, um, like . . ." Summer gave a warning hiss and jabbed Seth's side with her elbow. "Like a car pool," he concluded weakly.

Ryan shook his head. Checking his watch, he unlatched his seatbelt. From what Seth could tell from his reflection, he looked pensive, and more than a little reluctant. "Thanks," he replied tersely. "But Taylor said that she wants to drive. Something about never getting the chance when she was in Korea. Besides, we may not stay the whole evening. So . . ."

"So," Summer remarked brightly. "We'll just see you both at the country club." She waved as Ryan got out, then swiveled back to Seth. "All right," she ordered the moment the door was closed. "Drive, Cohen! Now!"

Ryan waited until the car pulled away. Then he took a deep breath, raked his hand through his hair, walked up the broad marble stairs, and rang the bell. The door opened almost instantly.

"Ryan Atwood!" Taylor greeted him with a gratified nod. "You are precisely on time. That is very commendable. I do so appreciate punctuality. It shows that someone is not only reliable, but also respectful of other people's time. Don't you think so? And since time is an irreplaceable resource, that sort of consideration is not only rare but particularly welcome."

Ryan blinked, looking slightly dazed.

"Oh!" Taylor clapped her hands together. "And speaking of welcome, je vous en prie, rentrez!" Flushed and a little breathless, she stood aside so that Ryan could enter.

His lips twitched furtively. Inclining his head, he stepped into the cool, all-white foyer, appraising his surroundings and Taylor at the same time. "Merci," he murmured. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before he commented, "Your home is very . . . Greek. I like the Doric columns."

Taylor's lashes fluttered in surprise. "You know about Doric columns? Well, obviously you do since you recognized ours, but it's just, well, not a subject I would have thought would interest you, since you're so, so . . ." Her voice trailed off in confusion. Blushing, she turned away and reached for her wrap.

Ryan's eyes lit with faint amusement as he settled the silk shawl around her shoulders.

"I'm so what?"

"What?" Taylor parroted.

"You said you were surprised I knew about Doric columns because I'm so . . .?"

"Oh." Taylor played with the fringe of her shawl. "I think I might have been, well, babbling," she confessed. "It's a nervous habit. Really, I have no idea what I was going to say, because of course you'd know Greek architecture. That's what you plan to study in college, isn't it? Well, not Greek architecture, of course. Just architecture."

A shadow crossed Ryan's face. "Maybe," he conceded curtly. Another lull in the conversation loomed, but he preempted it by remarking, "So . . . You look pretty tonight."

"I do?" Taylor spun around in surprise, almost knocking Ryan off-balance. Her auburn hair shimmered, and her full skirt flitted, bright as butterfly wings, around her legs. "Thank you! What a lovely thing to say!" She beamed with unreserved delight for an instant. Then her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Ryan Atwood," she chided. "You know, I understand the social parameters of this evening."

"Social . . . parameters," he echoed dubiously.

"Exactly. This art auction is a charitable obligation that's important to both our families, and you and I are merely attending it together as—well, as friends. So you needn't feel compelled to compliment me."

One corner of Ryan's mouth lifted in a brief, lopsided smile. "Okay. But you still look great. And by the way," he added dryly, "you don't have to keep calling me Ryan Atwood. I already know my last name."

Taylor bridled, apparently offended. Her mouth popped open, and Ryan braced himself to withstand some caustic retort. To his surprise—maybe to Taylor's own—she laughed instead, a series of giggles popping like brightly colored balloons.

"You're funny!" she exclaimed. She gave his shoulder a playful swat and then let her palm slide down his arm. "I didn't expect funny, Ryan!"

"No?" Ryan's lips pursed thoughtfully. "What did you expect?"

"Honestly?" Taylor's expression dimmed. Suddenly shy, she fidgeted with a loose strand of hair. "I think I expected you to cancel," she admitted. "After all, you and I have never been, well, close, and out of nowhere, I ask you to escort me to this fundraiser. In fact, I practically bulldozed you into agreeing, because I'm sure you just felt sorry for me and couldn't come up with a polite way to decline. So if you've had second thoughts and you'd rather not go—or at least not go with me—it's fine. I completely understand, and I'll just drop you off at the auction so you can join Seth and Summer. Or I take you home or call a cab for you--"

"Taylor?"

"Hmm?"

Ryan covered Taylor's hand with his and tucked the errant curl she was twisting behind her ear. Her eyes widened and she made a small mewing sound when he stepped back.

"I haven't changed my mind," he said gently. "Unless you have?"

"Me? No. Definitely not. No. I mean, no, I haven't," Taylor stammered. "Just, um, just let me just get my bag and I'll be ready to go."

Ryan watched appreciatively as she twirled around to the sideboard in the foyer.

Taylor's strapless dress looked like an explosion of graffiti, dizzying swirls of color dancing over a dark blue background. She shook back her hair self-consciously as she packed an improbable number of items into a tiny purse. Ryan cocked his head. His eyes followed one golden line that swirled around her breast before disappearing around the curve of her waist like a comet's tail. He found himself wondering exactly where it went from there.

Taylor finished tucking her cell phone into her purse and looked up. Immediately, Ryan's gaze dropped, but not before she noticed his obvious interest.

"It's my homage to Jackson Pollack," she murmured, smoothing invisible wrinkles on her skirt.

"Uh-huh. Jackson Pollock. So . . . what? It's an action painting dress?"

"Exactly! I know it's a bold statement, but we are going to an art auction, so I thought it would be appropriate and—oh! Ryan Atwood! I mean, Ryan--you know Jackson Pollock?"

"Well," Ryan shrugged, biting back a grin. "Not personally."

Taylor burst into another froth of giggles. "You are funny, Ryan! Plus, you know architectural styles and modern art!" Planting her hands on her hips, she eyed Ryan with mock severity. "You are such an enigma! What other qualities have you been hiding from me?"

"Taylor!" an imperious voice called. "Taylor, where are you, young lady? It's almost time to go!"

Veronica Townsend swept down the stairs, her heels beating a martial cadence on the marble steps. Immediately the atmosphere in the room changed. Taylor tensed, and her fingers clutched her small bag as if it were the only thing keeping her afloat in a raging maelstrom.

"I'm right here, mother," she said tightly. "With Ryan. Remember? I told you about him."

"Oh?" Veronica's perfectly plucked brows arched in surprise as she entered the foyer. "So you actually do have an escort this evening? Quel étonnement. I thought perhaps that might be wishful thinking on your part, darling." She turned to Ryan, her expression frankly appraising. "Ryan, is it? I'm sorry. Do we know each other?" 

Before Taylor's eyes, Ryan transformed himself. In an instant, all trace of any remaining diffidence disappeared. He straightened his shoulders and inclined his head, his eyes smoldering. A small smile tugged the corners of his mouth, hinting at some delicious secret.

"We've met," he murmured. Taking Veronica's hand, he held it almost as though he were going to kiss it. "But never officially. I'm Ryan Atwood." As he pronounced his last name, he cast a mischievous glance at Taylor from under his lashes. "It's a pleasure, Mrs. Townsend."

Veronica exhaled a tiny, charmed breath and arched her back. Her gaze raked down Ryan's body and then up again. "Indeed it is," she purred. "Please, Ryan. Call me Veronica."

"Veronica," Ryan repeated. His voice lingered over each syllable, as though tasting the name. When he relinquished her hand, she promptly raised it to her throat and began to stroke small circles on her bare skin.

Taylor's eyes whipped back and forth between the two of them. She looped a possessive arm through Ryan's, bridling just a bit. "Well. Now that you've met, we should go."

"Really? What's the rush?" Veronica demurred. Her earrings winked as she shook back her hair. "Ryan and I are just getting acquainted. And it's so seldom that I get to meet any of your friends." She pouted, appealing to Ryan. "Couldn't you keep me company until my date arrives?"

"We would," Ryan said smoothly. "But I promised the Cohens we'd be there as early as possible. Kirsten will be looking for us. So, Taylor, if you're ready?"

"Absolutely. See you later, mother." Deliberately, Taylor stressed the last word as she urged Ryan from the room and into the sultry twilight. "You're awfully good at that," she whispered the moment they were outside.

"Good at what?" Ryan sounded genuinely puzzled. He opened the car door for Taylor, even through she was driving, and waited for her to slide in.

She peered up at him, her eyes speculative as those of a diamond appraiser. "Being charming," she replied.

"Taylor, come on. I was polite, that's all."

"No," she argued. "Polite is saying 'It's good to meet you, Mrs. Townsend,' and shaking her hand."

Ryan frowned. "That's what I said. And did."

"No, no, you did much more than that. I can't explain it exactly, but it's something about your tone of voice, the way you carry yourself, your je ne sais quoi . . ." Taylor's brows creased as she considered the matter.

Watching her, Ryan caught his lower lip between his teeth. "You're being silly," he murmured, around a small smile.

"There!" Taylor exclaimed triumphantly.

"There . . . what?"

"You did it again! It's like some natural instinct, some kind of animal magnetism, you have around women. I suppose I never noticed before because you were . . . well, involved, so you didn't activate it. But I detect a definite talent, Ryan Atwood. And a very dangerous one. You spent two minutes with my mother, and now she thinks you're . . ."

Blushing furiously, Taylor broke off.

Ryan leaned on the doorframe. In the coppery light of the sunset, his hair shimmered like burnished gold and his eyes glinted a roguish blue. His fingers, calloused and capable, dangled close to her bare shoulders. "Thinks I'm what?" he prompted.

Taylor caught her breath. "Nothing," she claimed. Snapping her seatbelt, she sat up primly and put the key in the ignition. "We should get going, Ryan. Remember what I said about punctuality!"

Ryan raised his eyebrows. Then, with a quizzical shrug, he closed her door and crossed around the front of the car. As he did, Taylor shrank back on her seat with a tiny moan. "Sex on legs," she thought to herself. "And damn, for once my mother is right. This is going to be an interesting evening, Ryan Atwood."

TBC?


	2. Chapter 2

**An Evening of T & A, Chapter 2**

"Do you think he's changed his mind?" Kirsten asked, anxiously peering out the French doors of the country club.

Even though they had been discussing the menu—sadly lacking in shrimp tacos, from Sandy's point of view—he immediately understood Kirsten's abrupt question. Unwrapping the fingers she had clenched around her necklace, he laced them through his own. "Relax, sweetheart. Ryan isn't even late yet," he assured her. With a soft chuckle, he tapped their clasped hands against his watch. "It just seems that way because we were early, remember? I know you're chair of the committee running this gig, but why we had to get to here four hours before it began, I don't know."

"Sandy!" Still distracted, Kirsten scanned the other entrance. "We have not been here for four hours."

Sandy lifted his shoulders in a rueful shrug. "Ah," he sighed, "not literally perhaps. But time is all in the perception. It _seems_ like four hours, probably because setting up for an art auction is--well, sweetheart, it's pretty boring. Must be all these weird abstract paintings. Now, if there were a few female nudes . . ."

Wagging his eyebrows, he grinned slyly and Kirsten laughed in spite of herself.

"You're terrible, Sanford Cohen, and so is your taste in art!" She nuzzled Sandy's neck, but her tone grew wistful. "So you really think Ryan is going to show up? I mean it's not important that he be _here_ exactly, just that he start to be . . ."

"Himself again," Sandy concluded. "I know." Suddenly serious, he pulled Kirsten closer. "As tragic as Marissa's death was for us, at least we could be grateful that our kid survived. We had that comfort. For Ryan though? All living did was heap guilt on top his grief. Watching him go through that, not knowing how to help . . ." His voice trailed off, and Sandy took a ragged breath before he continued. "But it does seem like Ryan is finally taking the first steps back. I think he's going to show up, honey. In fact--" Lifting his head, Sandy gestured in the direction of the door. "Seth and Summer just walked in. Shall we?"

Kirsten nodded and hurried across the room. She embraced Summer warmly, an almost maternal gesture that had become second nature over the past months, but her gaze remained riveted on the door.

"He's not here yet, Mom," Seth noted dryly. "Taylor and Ryan didn't ride with us. But don't worry. He's not going to bail. Not since he actually made it as far as Taylor's place. I admit, that was a critical point in the launch sequence, but now that he's in Taylor's orbit, trust me, she'll manage the rest. Even Kid Chino can't escape the gravitational pull of TT."

"Cohen!" Summer chided. She sounded reproachful, but her laughing expression belied her tone.

Seth smiled beatifically. "Hey. I'm just saying, that's all." He gave Kirsten a quick kiss on the cheek as she continued to survey the entrance. "By the way, Mom, nice to see you too."

"I wasn't--I mean . . ." Kirsten flushed. "Oh kids, I'm so sorry. Summer, I didn't mean to be rude. I just that this evening . . ."

"No, I understand, Kirsten. It's all right, really. I've been worried about Ryan too. What happened with . . ." Summer swallowed hard. The corners of her mouth pinched together, but she squared her shoulders resolutely. Her voice scarcely quavered as she finished. "With Marissa--it's been really, really tough on him."

Warm sympathy suffused Sandy's voice. "On you too," he said gently.

"Yes, it has been," Summer admitted. She leaned against Seth as he tightened his arm around her. "I miss her every day. But I wasn't there when it happened. I think that's what he can't get past--being there, and still not being able to save her. Ryan was all about saving Marissa. This time--well, he couldn't, and he can't seem to forgive himself for that."

The four of them stood for a moment in laden silence. Then Sandy nudged Seth's shoulder. "I think we should find that real food that your mother promised us, son. What do you say? Ladies? Shall we? I'm pretty sure there's a good look-out site over by the buffet. We should be able to spot Ryan as soon as he and Taylor get here. And meanwhile, at least we can eat. Personally, I'm starving. Even though, due to a sorry oversight, there are no shrimp tacos on the menu . . ."

Taylor switched gears smoothly to pull onto the highway. Her posture was ruler straight, not even touching the back of the seat as she drove, and her hands were wrapped capably around the steering wheel at the ten and two o'clock positions.

Ryan laughed quietly, watching her. "You look like one of those illustrations in a driving manual," he observed. When Taylor's lips tightened, ready to frown, he added, "In a good way, I mean. Very focused and competent."

"Oh." Taylor sounded relieved. "Well, I've always believed that you should always give your full attention to the task at hand. Concentration is the key to succeeding at, well, pretty much everything." Without shifting her eyes from the road, she took a deep breath. "Ryan," she announced, "as I think you already know, I am nothing if not forthright--"

"No one would ever say you were nothing, Taylor," Ryan injected dryly.

Taylor darted a quick glance over, but his deadpan profile gave nothing away. She paused for just a moment, considering his comment. Then she lifted her chin decisively. "All right, that remark was a tad cryptic, but I'm choosing to take it as a compliment, Ryan. So . . . I'm just going to go ahead and say this. I think you and I will both be more comfortable if we acknowledge the proverbial elephant in the car."

Ryan shifted, his breath hissing slightly.

"It's been my experience that confronting sensitive subjects is the best way to deal with them," Taylor continued. "Simply talking about them helps to put them into perspective and makes them less formidable."

"Not always," Ryan muttered tightly. An edge of warning cut through his voice.

Taylor glanced at him, her face creased in an anxious frown. Then, smoothly and quickly, she pulled the car over onto the shoulder of the highway, stopped and turned off the engine. Turning to Ryan, she placed one hand over his clenched fist. "Yes. Always," she insisted quietly. "Ryan, I've never told you how sorry I am about Marissa."

A muscle jumped in Ryan's jaw. "Okay. Now you have. So we can get going."

"No." Almost unconsciously Taylor's fingers stroked the sharp ridges of his knuckles. Her words matched the movement, hushed, gentle, and slow. "When I heard what happened, I sent flowers to the Cooper family, of course, and I made a donation to MADD, but I didn't know what else to do. I wasn't here, and . . . and, well, 'sorry' is such an inadequate word, Ryan, especially coming from me, but . . . I want you to know that I am so sorry. For all of it." Taylor touched Ryan's cheek, the gesture fleeting and whisper-soft. "I can't even imagine what you've gone through—what you're still going through—but I had to tell you that I wish so much that it hadn't happened." Pulling her hands back to her lap, she folded them firmly. "And now I'm done."

Ryan's gaze slid sideways, opaque and haunted. "Really?" he asked hoarsely.

"Really," Taylor promised.

"Okay then." Ryan leaned his head back against the seat. His lashes fluttered closed. "Taylor," he added. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," she replied promptly. Then she paused, confused. "Ryan? Did you mean 'thank you for taking the initiative and talking to me about Marissa' or 'Thank you for stopping'?"

Ryan didn't open his eyes, but he inclined his head pensively. "Um . . . both?" he ventured.

"Both. I see. Both." Taylor sighed, relieved. "Well, I suppose that makes sense. I remember this very wise old woman I met in Korea. She once told me that communication resides equally in the words you share and the air of your silences. At least, I think that's what she said. She spoke in the Chungcheongdialect, which frankly I don't quite understand, so I may have missed some nuances. Still, I believe I got her point, so--"

"Taylor?" Ryan interjected. "Shouldn't you start the car?"

Taylor stopped, startled. "Excuse me?"

"Start the car," Ryan repeated. Without moving his head, he glanced at Taylor. Behind his lingering melancholy, a faint smile flickered. "I remember a young woman in Newport telling me that punctuality is very important. She spoke English, so I'm pretty sure I got the message. And if we don't go now, we're going to be late to the fundraiser."

"Oh!" Taylor bit her lip, blushing. "Well. That young lady sounds very wise." With instant composure, she turned on the engine and put the car into gear. "You know, Ryan," she announced, as they pulled back into traffic, "I'm never quite sure what to expect from you."

"You're not?"

"No, I'm not," she affirmed, looking straight ahead and smiling at the road. "And I like that."

Sandy, Kirsten, and Summer stood in a line in front of a large canvas, hands clasped behind their backs, examining the painting with feigned interest.

Off to the side, Seth shifted from foot to foot as he munched an empanada. Then he craned his head around the panel. "They're here," he hissed.

Immediately, the other three spun around, eyes riveted on the entrance. "Where?" Kirsten demanded.

"Okay, relax, Mom. That was just a dress rehearsal," Seth declared. "And based on that performance, may I suggest a little work on subtlety? Because it's not like all of you staring will make Ryan feel ambushed or self-conscious or anything."

"Us?" Summer protested. "What about you, Cohen? Who spent all his time in the car coming here composing T & A limericks?"

"Seth!" Sandy and Kirsten exclaimed in chorus.

Seth retreated hastily behind Summer. "Hey! That was totally different. It's not like I was going to recite them to Ryan. Or Taylor. Anyway, they even weren't dirty. Well, not very anyway." His parents glared at him, and Seth lifted his shoulders in an abashed shrug. "What? Is it my fault 'Taylor,' 'sailor' and 'nail her' all rhyme? I didn't create the English language, guys. I merely use it."

"Very inappropriately sometimes," Kirsten chided.

"Yeah, that's true," Seth admitted. "It's just that, you know, I feel this instinctive need to joke when I'm nervous. Or relieved. Or excited. Or--"

"Awake," Summer concluded.

Sandy chortled. "Ah yes, son, she knows you so well. By the way, a word of advice from your dear old dad. Any poems, witticisms, or clever remarks that you feel like sharing once Ryan gets here? Keep them to yourself." Switching places smoothly, he positioned Seth in front of the painting, appropriated his plate, and stepped to the side where he had a view of the door. "Now," he declared, spearing the last empanada. "I believe it's my turn on Atwood watch."

"Right on time!" Taylor announced with satisfaction. She beamed at Ryan, who was opening her car door. "I told you we wouldn't be late."

"Uh-huh. And you told that cop who stopped us for speeding that you were just keeping up with traffic."

"Well, I was!" Taylor insisted pertly. "I make it a point never to drive any faster than the fastest car on the road."

"So what road were we on? The Indy 500 speedway?" Ryan shook his head with amused admiration. "I can't believe he let you off with a warning."

Taylor ducked her head, smiling, as she took Ryan's arm. "I've gotten quite a few warnings," she admitted, with an airy shrug. "No tickets, though. I think the trick when you're stopped is simply to greet the officer with respect, while avoiding any obnoxious bootlicking, of course, and--"

"Oh, Ryan! This is luck!" a voice trilled. "Ryan! Over here!"

From a spot near the side entrance, Taryn waved importunately. When Ryan and Taylor hesitated, puzzled, she rushed to meet them, her pace surprisingly swift considering her skin-tight leather dress and five-inch stilettos. "You are just the person I need, darling," she announced breathlessly. "Could I borrow you for just the teeniest minute?"

Before Ryan could answer, Taryn had grabbed his elbow and started steering him back toward the parking area. Frowning, Taylor trotted after them.

"Excuse me! Hello!" she called. "Is there a problem?"

"What? Oh, Taylor, isn't it? I didn't notice you there. No, there's no problem, exactly," Taryn confessed. Without pausing, she continued to wend her way through the lines of cars. "It's just that I have been looking everywhere and I cannot find a single staff member! Well, not unless you count a few cater-waiters. But frankly none of them look like they can lift anything heavier than a dessert tray. Now you, on the other hand, Ryan . . ." Smiling flirtatiously, Taryn stroked his bicep. "You are definitely in shape. Would you be a sweetheart and give Derek a hand?"

Ryan shifted to remove himself from her grasp. "Derek?"

"My new . . . well, let's just call him my friend." With a sly wink, Taryn stopped in back of a silver-gray SUV. A very tan, very toned and very young man stood next to the open trunk where a large, garish sculpture rested.

It resembled nothing so much as an engorged penis.

"What. Is that?" Ryan demanded.

"It's a monstrosity," Taylor hissed.

Taryn didn't appear to hear. Smiling fondly, she ran a palm up and down the purplish stone. "This is my contribution to the auction. It's called 'Ecstasy Number Six.' Isn't it magnificent? I know I should have had it delivered earlier, but silly me, I completely forgot! Derek and . . . well, we were doing other things." She wrinkled her nose and shimmied against Derek's chest. "I'm sure you understand."

"Yeah," Ryan said dubiously. "I don't think so."

Beside him, Taylor rolled her eyes. "They got _distracted_," she mouthed, with a meaningful nod. Ryan shuddered in response and took a step back from the car.

"It's sad, really." Taryn sighed, oblivious to their reactions. "I do adore this piece, but I just redecorated my bedroom and now it doesn't seem to belong anymore."

The opening chords of "Sexy Back" interrupted her. Holding up one finger, Derek dug his cell phone out of his pocket and turned to answer it. Taryn took advantage of his inattention to sidle closer to Ryan. "Actually," she confided, "this piece was a gift from my ex-husband on our last anniversary. Since we split up, it just didn't seem right to keep it anymore. The memories, you know?"

Taylor shook her head with apparent sympathy. "I imagine just looking at it aroused all kinds of . . . sensitive feelings."

"Exactly!" Taryn gushed. "Of course, the artist isn't famous yet, but I'm sure that he will be, and it's so exciting to discover new talent, isn't it? So I thought, what better to do with my 'Ecstasy' than donate it to a charitable cause?"

Taylor edged next to Ryan's ear. "I can think of something," she whispered, as Derek flipped his phone shut.

His lips twitching, Ryan shot her a wry glance before he pushed up the sleeves of his sweater. "Okay, let's get this inside. Derek—you want to grab that end?"

"What? Oh yeah, man. I guess," Derek replied. Reluctantly, he took a position by the smaller side.

"Derek could have managed it by himself, of course," Taylor claimed, as they hefted the sculpture out of the car. "It's just that his muscles are a tad sore because we've been playing a lot of . . . tennis, and--Oh, Derek, darling! Watch it! You're getting dirt on your shirt!"

"Fuck!" Derek muttered. Immediately he released his grip, tipping the sculpture completely into Ryan's grasp. Staggered by the sudden weight, Ryan stumbled backwards, fumbling to balance the piece. He might have dropped it except that Taylor slipped into Derek's place and clutched his end.

"Hey, man!" Ryan snapped. "You mind?"

"What?" Derek mumbled indifferently. He was peering over his shoulder at a faintly smudged spot that Taryn was rubbing.

With an awkward shove, Taylor maneuvered the tip of the sculpture onto her shoulder. "It's all right, Ryan," she panted, swaying on her high heels. "I've got it."

"Taylor, let it go."

"No, seriously. I've been working on, on . . ." She paused to take a labored breath. "My . . . upper body strength. My trainer says I've been making . . . real progress . . . with free weights and . . . okay, this is really, really heavy."

Immediately, Ryan lifted the sculpture off Taylor's body. In grim silence, he settled it against his chest, angled himself so he could see around it, and turned toward the club.

"Ryan!" Taylor scurried to catch up. "I didn't mean for you to take it! I just needed to get the right leverage. Carrying a heavy weight is all in finding the proper fulcrum. Honestly, I can help--"

"Yes, you can. Make sure I don't walk into something," Ryan ordered from behind the bulbous mass that nearly blocked his sight. Over his shoulder he called back to Derek, "Really appreciate the help there, dude!"

Derek didn't bother to reply. Still engrossed in cleaning the stain on his shirt, Taryn fluttered her fingers in Ryan's direction. "Thank you, Ryan!" she chirped absently. "Oh—and don't forget to tell Kirsten that I came through after all!"

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

An Evening of T & A 3 

"I've gotta say, you're not looking so stealth there, son." Sandy shook his head, chuckling, as Seth paced back and forth in front of the French doors. "Weren't you the one who said we shouldn't make it obvious to Ryan that we're waiting for him?"

Seth's eyes widened and he snatched a miniature cheesecake off a dessert tray. "Hey, I am totally not looking for Ryan," he protested with feigned innocence. "I'm just, um, eating. And marking time here until Summer gets back from the restroom. This is me in stranded-date mode, that's all."

"Ah. I see. You're waiting for Summer." Sandy drawled. Taking his son by the shoulders, he pivoted Seth to face the other side of the room. "Except . . . isn't she over there talking to your mother and Julie?"

"What?" Seth attempted a tone of outraged surprise. "She must have slipped past me somehow! How did she manage that?"

"Hmm, I don't know . . . Maybe because the restrooms are off the front hall, and not out in the parking lot?"

Seth scowled and adjusted his jacket with affronted dignity. "There is no need for sarcasm, father."

"You're right," Sandy conceded cheerfully. "No need at all. I just enjoy it." Wagging his eyebrows, he draped an arm around Seth and led him through the crowded room. "Help me distract your mother, all right?" he suggested, sotto voce, as they walked. "Between running this event and worrying about Ryan, she's been pretty tense this evening." In a louder voice, he called, "Kirsten! Sweetheart, Seth and I found a painting we think we should bid on."

"We have?" Seth asked blankly. His father nudged his side, and he rushed to backtrack. "I mean, yeah, Mom, we have. But we'd like your expert opinion. You know, my art background is pretty much confined to comic books—which are, however, a completely legitimate and undervalued genre—and as for Dad . . . well, he's stuck on a bunch of dogs playing poker. You were the art history major. What do you think of--" Completely at random, Seth wheeled around and pointed to a canvas layered with churning blobs of blue paint. "That?"

Kirsten's eyes narrowed in bewilderment. "You're interested in that piece? Really?" Trailed by Julie and Summer, she approached the canvas and inspected it critically. "Well, it's striking--almost a cross between fauvism and abstract-expressionism--but I thought you both preferred more literal art."

"Literal. Well. Yeah. Usually that's true. But literal can get, you know . . . boring." Seth sidestepped Summer, ignoring her speculative frown. "Personally, I love the isms: fauvism, expressionism, escapism, hypnotism antidisestablishmentarianism--"

"What are you talking about, Cohen?" Summer demanded as he sputtered to a stop.

"It reminds us of the morning surf on a cloudy day," Sandy cut in smoothly. "Or the wake of a sailboat, right son?"

Seth nodded vigorously. "Right. Exactly," he declared. "Surf, waves, water circling a drain—generally anything wet and moving. So what do you say, Mom. Should we bid on it? It could class up Dad's office, maybe."

"I . . . suppose," Kirsten agreed dubiously. "If you really want it."

"What's not to want?" Sandy leaned forward to scrawl a figure on the bid sheet next to the painting. When he stood up again, Kirsten was checking her watch, her lips folded into a tight line. "Sweetheart . . ." he reproved.

"Well, now he is late," Kirsten explained defensively.

Julie yawned, tapping her mouth and looking bored. "Who's late?"

"Ryan."

"Oh!" She snagged a drink from a passing waiter. "Ryan is coming tonight? Well, that is a surprise. But why didn't he just ride with you?"

Kirsten shifted uncomfortably. "He's . . . escorting Taylor Townsend." Julie's brows arched and Kirsten added, "She invited him as a friend, and to be honest, we were thrilled that he agreed. He needs to connect with other people--"

"Kiki," Julie said. She took a wavering breath before she continued. Her tone was resigned, but tinged with sorrow. "It's all right. Really. You don't have to defend Ryan to me. I know what Marissa meant to him. And if he's decided that he's ready to start dating, well, I understand."

Kirsten squeezed Julie's hand. "It really isn't a date," she insisted gently. "But now I'm starting to wonder if Ryan changed his mind about coming at all."

"Sweetheart, he's not even ten minutes late," Sandy protested. "You need to relax--"

He broke off as the side entrance slid open. There was a flash of blue silk shot with swirling colors and Taylor backed in, directing Ryan.

"They're here!" Seth announced, hurrying to greet them. He skidded to a stop near the door. "Or, at least Taylor is. And, um, there are Ryan's legs. But I don't know about the rest of him . . ." Incredulous, he stared open-mouthed as Ryan made his way inside, the massive phallic symbol cradled against his body and almost obscuring his face. Seth spun around, arms outstretched. "Um . . . Mom, Summer, Julie, maybe you shouldn't look. Because this? Is a really disturbing image--"

Before he could finish, the women surged forward to cluster around Ryan.

Seth stumbled out of their way. "Okay, now see, that is looking."

Ignoring him, they all spoke at once.

"Atwood?" Summer gasped. "What the hell?"

"What _is _that?" Kirsten demanded, extending a tentative finger and then snatching it back. "Ryan? What on earth?"

"My God! Ryan!" Julie blurted. "You're carrying a . . . a . . ." Unable to choke out the word, she collapsed into laughter. "This fundraiser just . . . got . . . so much more interesting!"

His breath hissing, Ryan peered around the heavy stone. Immediately, he grimaced and ducked back behind it again.

"Taylor," he begged. His voice sounded half-strangled. "Please tell me that Julie Cooper and half of Newport aren't staring at me right now."

Taylor bit her lip. "Well, Ryan," she hedged, "actually I would have to say that--"

"Lie," he ordered.

"Nobody is paying any attention to you at all."

"Good." Panting slightly, Ryan shifted the sculpture higher in his grasp. "Kirsten, where do you want--" he began. Then he paused, flinching at his own words. His muscles strained and his barely visible cheeks flamed an abashed red. "I mean," he amended, "where should I put—Look, Taryn sent this thing for the auction. Where does it belong?"

Seth circled Ryan, inspecting the shape with malicious glee. "Well," he suggested, "looking at it, I'd say--"

"You know, son," Sandy warned, "If I were you, I wouldn't finish that sentence." Trying to muffle his laughter, he grabbed the top of the sculpture so that Ryan wasn't supporting its full weight. "Come on, kid. Let's just set it down." Over his shoulder, he called to the onlookers, "Show's over, folks! Feel free to grab a drink and go back to spending your money."

"I'll get someone to . . . um, take care of that for you, Ryan" Julie offered. Sighing with frank admiration, she backed away. "But I have to say, you really know how to make an entrance!"

With a mortified groan, Ryan lowered his end of the sculpture to the floor. He winced as he straightened, reaching instinctively to knead between his shoulder blades.

Instantly Taylor's eyes narrowed with concern. "What's wrong, Ryan?" she demanded.

"Nothing," he claimed. His lopsided shrug didn't look convincing.

"That horrible . . .thing . . . was too heavy, wasn't it? You wouldn't let me help, and now you've hurt yourself." Using her shawl as an improvised handkerchief, Taylor dabbed a thin sheen of sweat off Ryan's forehead. "Hold still," she reproved when he tried to twist away from her. "You have got to learn to accept assistance sometimes, Ryan. Being independent is admirable. Being unreasonably self-reliant is . . . well, it's just silly. And sometimes dangerous."

"Did an old woman in Korea tell you that?" he gritted.

"No. It's simple common sense, Ryan."

Sandy grinned and leaned down to Kirsten. "I like this girl," he whispered.

Kirsten smiled tenderly. "So do I," she agreed.

Tossing her shawl over a nearby chair, Taylor sidled toward Ryan's back. "Now, let me see what's wrong--"

"I'm fine!" Ryan protested. He tried to swat away her probing fingers. "It was just a twinge, that's all. Taylor, come on. It's nothing--"

Seth wrapped his arms around Summer. "Aw, look," he chortled, nestling his head against her neck. "Taylor's trying to take care of Ryan. That's really cute. And also futile. It's kind of like a comic Mission Impossible, isn't it?"

Summer barely appeared to hear what he was saying. Her gaze remained riveted on the hunk of purple marble, even as two workers appeared with a dolly to wheel it away. "Cohen," she hissed, "that thing really, really . . . Well, I mean, it looks exactly like . . ."

"Yeah," Seth grinned. "It does. Pretty much a triple-triple-X version too."

"And Ryan . . . when he was carrying it . . . and it was just sticking straight up . . . he . . . he kind of looked like . . ."

"Oh yes, indeed he did," Seth nodded sagely. "Kid Chino obviously has another superpower."

They swiveled around to stare at Ryan, Summer's eyes wide and impressed, Seth's dancing with hilarity.

Ryan was still squirming away from Taylor's ministrations, but he paused to shoot them a warning glare.

Seth promptly bit back his laughter. "Right, buddy . . . This is totally not amusing. But, hey, you're here. And, uh, Summer and I will be over there . . . by the cartoon cels. If you need us or anything. Which I'm pretty sure you won't, since Taylor seems like she can take care of things. In case you have anything that needs to be taken care of--"

"Cohen!" Clamping her hand on his wrist, Summer dragged Seth away.

"We'll join them," Sandy announced. "Gotta make sure Seth doesn't use his college funds to bid on a Homer Simpson. We're glad you and Taylor could make it, kid. And it was nice of you to bring in Taryn's . . . generous contribution. It must have been hard, carrying something like that across the parking lot . . . Honey, you ready?"

Ignoring Ryan's embarrassed moan behind them, Sandy wheeled Kirsten into the crowd.

"Sanford Cohen! 'It must have been hard'?" she scolded.

"Hard. You know. Difficult," Sandy claimed. "Hey, like Seth said, I didn't create the English language. I just use it."

Kirsten shook her head ruefully. She waved an apology back at Ryan as he pivoted in place, watching them disappear.

"Ryan, you need to stop moving, " Taylor urged. She kneaded a spot below his shoulder blade. "Is this where it hurts? Because I can definitely feel a knot there."

Ryan ducked. "Tell you what," he suggested, managing to catch her hands in his. "If you want to help, could you get me something to drink? Something with lots of ice?"

Taylor froze instantly, staring at their joined hands. "Hmm?" she murmured. "I'm sorry. What?"

"Could you get me some ice water?" Ryan repeated as he released her.

"Oh!" She roused with a start. "But of course! I can do that! Waiter!" She snapped her fingers. "We need a glass of water here! Immediately, s'il vous plaît! Oh—and make it tepid, please, with a twist of lemon!"

The server sketched a bow before he retreated.

Ryan frowned, half-amused, half-irritated. "So to you, 'tepid' means 'lots of ice'?"

Taylor raised her chin sternly. "Drinking something cold after physical exertion can cause cramps, Ryan. A lukewarm beverage is much better for you. I can't imagine that you don't know that, since . . ." She took a trembling breath, "it's obvious that you work out."

"Yeah. Well, I'm hot and I want some ice. I'll be right back." Ryan took four steps, and turned to see Taylor following him eagerly. He put his hands on her shoulders, halting her in place. "Wait. Here," he ordered.

Taylor's mouth opened to protest, but Ryan tapped a cautionary finger across her lips, and she closed them again.

"Mmm-hmm. I'll just . . . wait here," she agreed. Eyes glinting with dazzled admiration, she watched him stride toward the bar. "Damn right you're hot. Sex on legs, Ryan Atwood," she sighed and sank into a blissful reverie.

Her trance—she had just pulled Ryan beneath the surface of the Cohen's infinity pool—was broken by the haughty timbre of her mother's voice.

"Taylor!" Veronica swept into the gallery, pausing to greet people with air kisses as she crossed the room. "There you are! But where is that luscious young man of yours? Don't tell me you've scared him off already?"

At that moment, the waiter reappeared at Taylor's elbow. "Your water, miss? Tepid, with lemon, just as you requested." His expression flashed a gossip alert as he glanced at Veronica, and he planted himself where he could overhear easily.

Flushing, Taylor snatched the glass and retreated toward a corner. "Mother, please," she hissed. "In the first place, Ryan is not my young man, and in the second place--"

"I'm right here," Ryan interjected smoothly. He slipped next to Taylor and slid an arm around her waist. "Sorry I took so long. I lost you in the crowd." His voice dropped an octave. "Veronica. Hello," he added with a crooked smile. "Are you alone this evening? May I get you something to drink?"

Veronica shook back her hair. "Thank you, Ryan. I'm fine," she purred. "My date is . . . well, he's around here somewhere." With a feline smile, she reached over to brush an invisible bit of lint from Ryan's shoulder. Her fingers lingered there for a moment before she turned to Taylor. "Je suis impressionnée, chérie. Ca fait une heure et demie, et il a toujours l'air intéressé. Ou peut-être que tu as utilisé ta technique habituelle, et que tu lui as promis une . . . récompense pour plus tard?"

_"I'm impressed, darling. It has been an hour and a half, and he still seems interested. Or maybe you used your usual technique, and you promised him a . . . reward, for later?" _

Taylor bristled. "Mère!" she protested.

At her tone, Ryan clasped her closer protectively. His gaze, dark with concern, darted to Veronica and back again.

"Ce n'était pas une critique, Taylor," Veronica claimed indifferently. "Il faut ce qu'il faut, après tout. Mais quand il commencera à s'ennuyer, essaie de me l'envoyer, tu veux? Il doit surement & ecirc; tre bon au lit."

_"It wasn't a criticism, Taylor. One needs to do what one needs to do, after all. But when he starts to get bored, try to send him my way, would you? He must be amazing in bed."_

"Maman! Arrête, s'il te plaît! C'est embarassant!"

_"Mom, stop it please! This is embarrassing!"_

Veronica shrugged. "Quoi?" she demurred. Licking her lips, she regarded Ryan, whose wary gaze registered frank suspicion. "Il ne comprend pas un mot de ce qu'on raconte . . ."

_"What? It's not as if he can understand what we're saying . . ."_

"Perhaps I should leave for a few minutes?" Ryan suggested. "Taylor, if you want to talk to your mother--"

"I don't," Taylor declared. Two hectic red spots stained her cheekbones, and her eyes blazed furiously. "And I think my mother is the one who should leave. But not before she apologizes. We were both very rude just now. Please forgive me, Ryan . . . Mother?"

Her lashes fluttering, Veronica heaved a long-suffering sigh. "My daughter is so dramatic, Ryan. But I suppose I should go find my date. And I am sorry if our little tête-à-tête made you uncomfortable." Snagging a glass of champagne, she leaned forward and kissed Ryan's cheek. "Trust me," she whispered huskily, "I would never want a young man like you to feel left out. So if you ever do . . ."

Veronica let the invitation dangle. With a suggestive simper, she turned, threw one last leer over her shoulder, and glided out of the room.

Taylor pulled her car to a stop in front of the Cohen home. She sat straight and still at the wheel, and she stared out the front window even when she spoke.

"I am so, so sorry, Ryan," she said on a shuddering breath. "This whole evening was terrible for you, wasn't it?" Before he could reply she answered her own question, her voice thick with misery. "Well, obviously it was. I coerce you into taking me to this fund-raiser, I insist on driving when I know you'd much rather ride with Seth and Summer, I talk your ear off—much of the time about things that are none of my business. And then when we get to the auction, you have to . . . Oh God, you have to carry a giant penis into the country club, you pull a muscle doing it, my shameless urban cougar of a mother launches into a tirade in French, she makes an obvious play for you and--"

A muffled sound came from the passenger seat, and Taylor swiveled around in consternation. "Are you . . . Ryan Atwood! Are you laughing at me?"

"Not," Ryan managed to choke out, "at you."

"But you're laughing!"

"Well, come on, Taylor. The giant penis?" Ryan shook his head. "Okay, yeah, it was embarrassing, but it is pretty funny. Do you suppose anybody actually bid on that thing?"

Like a sudden spray of whipped cream, Taylor's giggles erupted, frothy and sweet. "My mother did, probably!"

Tilting her head, she glanced sideways at Ryan. Their eyes met and they both burst into renewed peals of laughter. For a few moments, the car echoed with shared mirth, but gradually it settled into silence again. Taylor's expression dimmed, becoming uncertain and shy. "So you weren't . . . completely miserable tonight?" she prompted wistfully.

Ryan didn't respond right away. His eyes opaque, he studied the few, stalwart stars that pierced through the night sky. When he spoke at last, his tone was both mystified and grateful. "I wasn't miserable at all," he admitted. "This was . . . it was good. I'm glad we went together, Taylor."

"Oh!" Taylor's face lit with giddy relief. "You are? Really, Ryan? Because I am too."

"So . . . thanks. For asking me." Ryan paused and swallowed. His mouth worked and he seemed to consider saying something else before he settled for a simple, "Goodnight."

Taylor nodded breathlessly. "Yes. Goodnight," she whispered.

Ryan opened his door, hesitated for a moment, then leaned back and brushed Taylor's cheek with his thumb. With a quick, silent smile, he climbed out of the car. Head tilted back, he walked toward the patio, one hand absently kneading the nape of his neck.

Taylor fingered her keys as she watched him go.

"Don't push it," she warned herself. "You really shouldn't do this, girl." Then, lips pursed thoughtfully, she gave a decisive nod. "But you're going to anyway."

In a swift, seamless motion, she slipped off her high heels, tossed them onto the car seat and padded, barefoot, after Ryan. She caught up to him just as he opened the poolhouse door.

"Taylor?" Ryan asked, baffled, as she slipped inside. "Is something wrong? I thought you were going home."

"I was," she conceded. "But you winced."

"I . . . winced?"

"You winced. When you got out of the car. Obviously your back is bothering you, so I thought I'd make sure you feel better before you go to bed. Otherwise, we--you--will never get any sleep." Sidling around Ryan, Taylor surveyed the room, her face set in a judicious frown.

"Thanks, but it's no big deal. I'll just rub on some Deep Heat or—Taylor?" Ryan stopped, staring at her feet. "You're not wearing any shoes."

Taylor glanced down. The deep crimson of her nail polish winked as she wiggled her toes. "I know," she shrugged.

"Right. Only . . . why aren't you wearing your shoes?"

"Silly! I told you, I'm going to help your back."

Ryan inclined his head warily. "And to do that you need to be barefoot?"

"Absolument!" Taylor trilled. She approached Ryan, cornering him when he backed away. "I promise, once I'm done, you will feel –" She twirled her hands, fluttering her fingers like a magician's, "one thousand times better. Just trust me, Ryan."

"Trust. You." Ryan licked his lips. "Do I have a choice?"

"No," Taylor replied blithely as she took his hand. "You don't." Walking backwards, she pulled him toward his punching bag. Before Ryan could guess what she was doing, she unlatched the bag and hoisted it down.

"Taylor!" he objected, trying to grab it back.

"I've got it," she panted. Staggering slightly, she set the bag out of the way. "Hmm," she mused, stretching up to test the height of the hook, "Well, this isn't ideal, but it should do, I think. Now take off your sweater, Ryan. Then lie down here on your stomach and relax."

Ryan shook his head.

"You are so stubborn! Honestly, Ryan, have I ever misled you?"

"You mean in the six or so hours we've spent together?"

"Never mind. The point is, you are going to like this."

Ryan didn't move. "Taylor. You haven't said what _this_ is."

"Some things are better demonstrated than explained. Now come on, Ryan." Taylor cocked her head, simultaneously appearing both smug and stern. "You know I'm not going to leave until you do."

Looking a little like a trapped animal, Ryan glanced from Taylor to the door and back again. She nodded resolutely and gestured to the floor.

Groaning in defeat, Ryan began to lie down.

"Uh-uh-uh!" Taylor warned. "First remove the sweater, please!"

Ryan's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why do I have to take off any clothes?"

Taylor planted her hands on her hips and heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Do you ask a doctor that question, Ryan?"

"Are you a doctor, Taylor?"

"Well, not now," she admitted airily. "But someday, perhaps. I haven't narrowed my career choices quite yet. In any case, I have studied reiki and I earned an advanced certificate from the Watsu Institute of Healing Hands and Body Wellness. It attests to my expertise in the art of Ashiatsu Bar Therapy. Of course we don't have a bar here, but I can make the necessary adjustments. So if you'll just take off that sweater, please." When Ryan still hesitated, Taylor's mouth tightened in reproach. Reaching over, she eased his sweater carefully over his head, folded it, and put it on the bed. "Good!" she declared with satisfaction. "Now the undershirt please."

Ryan crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't think so," he replied.

"Non, non, non, Atwood! No arguments! This technique words best skin-to-skin."

"Ah." Ryan's lips quirked and he lowered his gaze. "So does that mean you're taking your shirt off too?"

Taylor blushed scarlet. She managed to look delighted and offended at the same time. "Mr. Atwood! I think carrying that sculpture around this evening must have gone to your--"

"Taylor," Ryan warned, grinning in spite of himself. "Do not finish that sentence."

"Fine," she agreed primly. "I won't. As long as you take off that insultingly nicknamed tank top of yours and lie down."

For a moment Ryan stood immobile, head cocked, his eyes glinting a changeable blue. Then, with sudden decision, he stripped off his wifebeater. Very gingerly, he eased himself to the floor.

"Satisfied?" he asked. His voice emerged gruff and muffled, since his mouth was half buried in his crossed arms.

"Mmm, almost."

Ryan glanced back up when he heard drawers opening and closing. "Taylor? What are you looking for?"

"Candles."

"Well, that may take a while. I don't have any."

Taylor spun around, shocked. "Really? None?"

"I have a flashlight," Ryan reported helpfully. "You know, in case there's ever a power outage."

"A flashlight. That is just . . . well, it's pitiful, really." With a sigh of regret, Taylor turned off all the lights except for Ryan's bedside lamp. "Tomorrow, I am buying you some candles," she declared, fiddling with the radio into she found a soft, instrumental piece. "Sandalwood, maybe, because you should have something earthy, and cinnamon because it's such a warm, cozy scent. Oh! And vanilla for the times when you need to mellow out. Definitely lots of vanilla candles. But tonight I'll just have to improvise, I suppose." Opening her purse, Taylor took out her cologne and hand cream. She sprayed a mist of Shalimar around the room and sat down to finish her preparations.

Ryan bit back a smile. "Okay, so it's dark, the place smells good, and you've got some sappy music playing. Now what?" he asked.

Grabbing the punching bag hook to support her weight, Taylor stepped delicately onto Ryan's back. "Now. This," she answered coolly.

Ryan jerked in surprise as her toes, slick with lotion, curled into his flesh. An incoherent growl caught in his throat before he managed to muster any words. "Taylor? What . . . God, what are you doing?"

"Giving you a massage," Taylor explained. She ground the heel of one foot into a muscle below Ryan's shoulder blade. "This is Ashiatsu Bar Therapy--minus the bar, of course. It's more effective than a standard massage, I think, because I can exert more pressure this way. Now just relax and let me work."

"Relax. Yeah. Easy for you to say."

"Ry-an!" Taylor separated his name into two reproachful syllables. "You have to trust me."

She shifted her weight and he grunted, his fingers gouging into the floor.

"It's just . . . have you done this a lot?"

"Oh, dozens and dozens of times! I had to, in order to pass the course."

"I mean . . ." Ryan struggled for coherency. "With real people."

Taylor tapped her tongue against her teeth. "Of course. Real people attended the institute, Ryan. It's not like we used a CPR dummy or anything--well, not once we mastered the technique. Now, just close your eyes and let your body sink into the sensation."

"But--"

"Shh! All you have to do is lie there and feel."

Graceful as a ballerina, Taylor rose onto her toes and sank down again, relevé-ing her way across Ryan's back.

Ryan groaned blissfully. "Taylor?" he asked. His voice was drowsy and thick with contentment after several minutes of silent massage.

"Hmm?"

"When we were talking about the Greek columns at your house? You mentioned that I was going to major in architecture in college. How did you know that anyway?"

"Oh. Well. Seth said something about it once."

"And you remembered that? Why?"

"You're memorable, Ryan," Taylor confessed. Ryan stirred, and she eased him back down with firm little steps high on his shoulders. " Besides," she added softly, "I remember information about my friends. Of course, I suppose we weren't really friends at the time, but . . . I hope maybe we are now."

Ryan's chuckle trailed off in a hissing breath. "Taylor, you're walking on my back. I'd say we're friends."

"I am walking as your back as a therapist, Ryan. But we're talking as friends." Taylor paused and a note of uncertain hope crept into her voice. "At least I think we are. Aren't we?"

Ryan angled his face sideways to look up at her. A faint smile flickered behind his eyes, then slipped to the surface. "Yeah," he affirmed. "We are."

"Good," Taylor murmured. She dragged the ball of one foot slowly down his spine. "I wasn't sure—I mean, I know I can be, well, overwhelming enough, but then my mother—God, Ryan, I was so humiliated--"

"I know." A new piece of music began, dark and pensive. Ryan's earnest tone matched its pitch. "But Taylor, the way your mom acts? That's all her. It's not you, and there is no reason at all for you to be embarrassed."

"Thank you, Ryan," Taylor whispered. Lifting her weight off his body she brushed the nape of his neck with her toes before she settled back down again. "That's very sweet. But it's hard sometimes--"

Ryan took a deep breath and let the air whistle out in a sigh. "Yeah, I understand that. Maybe someday I'll tell you about my mom."

Instantly, Taylor brightened. "You will?" she demanded. "Because that would be wonderful. I mean, not wonderful in a misery loves company way, because I wish you didn't have any painful memories to share. It's just wonderful that you would trust me to listen. And I will, you know. I'm available anytime you want to talk. Really, Ryan. About anything. Believe it or not, despite my tendency to dominate a conversation, I am capable of doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Listening. I mean, instead of talking."

Ryan peered up, his mouth quirked in a quizzical grin.

"Well I am!" Taylor exclaimed.

She stamped lightly to make her point, and Ryan emitted a muffled "ummph!" At the same time, Seth's clambering footsteps on the patio announced his arrival.

"Ryan! Hey, buddy!" he called from outside. "I've got drinks, I've got chips, everything we need for some serious Seth-Ryan time! Not that there's anything to talk about tonight. Well, except for you and Taylor and what I like to call The Adventures of Kid Chino and the Giant Cock. And—um, I—uh--" Absorbed in his own monologue, Seth was halfway inside the poolhouse before he spluttered to an incredulous stop.

"Hello, Seth!" Taylor caroled blithely. "Did you and Summer enjoy yourselves this evening? Personally, I thought the event was très magnifique!"

Seth nodded numbly. "Uh-huh. Yeah. Great food. Lots of fun. And, um . . . Ryan?" He lowered his voice to a confidential mumble. "This is a little . . . I mean Taylor is . . . That is—Dude, she seems to be—walking on your back."

A dull red flush stained Ryan's skin. He squirmed, trying to dislodge Taylor without toppling her. "She's not really . . . well, yes, she is. But it's a just a massage."

Oblivious to Ryan's tacit "Get off," Taylor rolled her insteps across his shoulders. "Ashiatsu Bar Therapy," she clarified helpfully.

"Uh-huh." Seth's head bobbed again. "And just how many drinks did the two of you have?"

"Not that kind of bar," Taylor laughed. "Although I can understand why you would be confused, Seth. We didn't have the proper equipment here. So I had to improvise, which does makes it all look less professional, and more, well, salacious, I suppose--"

"Taylor?" Ryan hissed. He pressed his palms flat against the floor and started to push up.

Taylor's eyes widened with realization. "Oh! Right!" Her hands fluttering with apology, she hopped off Ryan's back. "We're done now! So, I'll just . . . be going. Seth, it was nice to see you. Ryan, thank you for . . . well, for everything. I'll come by tomorrow to see how your back feels, all right? And I'll bring you those candles I promised. Goodnight!"

Waving ecstatically, Taylor skipped out the door. Seth watched her go, stunned and speechless. Then he pivoted slowly to face Ryan again.

"Don't say it, Seth," Ryan warned. With a groan, he rolled to his knees and fumbled for his sweater. "And why did you come out here anyway? Didn't you see Taylor's car in the drive?"

"That was Taylor's car? A couple Newpsies are inside debriefing the auction with Mom so I just assumed . . . Hey, don't try to change the subject, buddy." Seth sank onto the ottoman. He leaned forward, tenting his fingers and propping his chin on top of them. "Now let's just recap. I walk in. The lights are out. There's string music playing. You're not wearing a shirt. Taylor's not wearing her shoes. You're on the floor. Taylor's on your back. And you both look . . . how can I say this? Satisfied. Oh--and tomorrow she's coming back to bring you candles."

Seth's face creased into broad, Cheshire grin. His eyes danced wickedly and he settled back into the chair. "Ryan, Ryan, Ryan. What an evening you've had."

Ryan dropped his head into his hands. "You're not going to go away, are you?" he moaned.

"No," Seth replied. "No, I'm not. In fact, I hope you're not sleepy, dude, because this? Is going to require marathon Seth-Ryan time. Now, question number one: what exactly did Taylor mean when she thanked you for 'everything'?"

FIN


End file.
